


Five times everything was shiny and one time it wasn't

by Jadzia_Bear



Category: Firefly, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: 5 + 1, 5 Times, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff without Plot, Hurt/Comfort, my days of crossing over avengers and firefly are certainly coming to a middle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 20:47:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3222935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadzia_Bear/pseuds/Jadzia_Bear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So what if his new cook is guileless and resilient and quick-witted and kind.  If there’s one thing Malcolm Reynolds knows how to do, it’s keep his hands off a compelling and beautiful brunette.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five times everything was shiny and one time it wasn't

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know if 5 + 1 fics are still cool, but I always wanted to write one and now I finally have. Translations can be found at the end, but (like on the show) I tried to use Mandarin only in places where the meaning is already pretty obvious. Sorry for any mistakes, but not sorry about once again making Darcy the ship’s cook ;)

* * *

_“If you take sexual advantage of her you’re going to burn in a very special level of hell, a level they reserve for child molesters, and people who talk at the theatre.” – Shepherd Book_

* * *

Mal scrubs a hand over his face and gives up on trying to get back to sleep. The clock on the wall hasn’t even hit 0500, but if he’s going to lie here brooding over how they’re going to afford to replace the resonator when the time comes, he may as well get up and clean the filters, add a few more days to the life of a part that’s already on borrowed time.

He gets dressed for the day and scales the ladder from his bunk to the gangway above. He makes his way to the galley with the intention of grabbing something quick to eat and maybe some tea before setting about his task, but pulls up short when he finds he’s not the first one there.

That’s right, he has a cook now; he keeps forgetting that. Not that Darcy is at all forgettable, but she hasn’t even been on board a week yet. She hums as she kneads a ball of dough, flour from one end of the counter to the other, along with a large dirty mixing bowl and a couple of waiting loaf tins.

She’d been the first to reply to his advertisement for a ship’s cook, showing up at the bottom of the cargo ramp looking like something even a cat wouldn’t drag in. She’d told a story of fleeing her respectable home in the middle of the night a couple of weeks prior, of being on the run for something no one should have to run from, and the sight before him matched the tale. Her clothes, though covered in days’ worth of travel dust, had been neat and new not so long ago. Likewise, her greasy hair was professionally trimmed, and when he’d shaken her hand, her palm was soft and uncalloused.

Her wary, hungry eyes were underscored by dark smudges of exhaustion, and the yellow-green bruises on her wrists spoke to further unpleasantness in recent days, but despite the abrupt downturn in her circumstances, she was keeping a level head and a sense of humour, which, truth be told, went further in endearing her to him than anything else.

She’d insisted she was a good cook and could stick to a strict budget, so he’d told her their next two days in Eavesdown Docks were her trial run. If she was as good as she said, she could lift off with them when they left for New Melbourne. She’d done better than any of the rest of his crew at making something edible out of their meagre supplies, so here they were.

Darcy stops humming and looks up when his boot squeaks against the floor, but her hands never falter in their rhythmic ministrations on the dough. “You’re up early, Cap. Was I making too much noise?”

“No, no.” He resumes his course across the dining area to the galley like he never stopped in the first place. “Just getting an early start on the day.”

She’s a very different sight now to that first day, though most of it could be attributed to a shower and a change of clothes. The circles under her eyes had been chased away by several good nights of sleep, and the watchful look in her big blue-green eyes had eased as she came to accept that she was safe once more. She still keeps her taser close—one of the few possessions she’d brought on board—but she’s graduated to stashing it in the middle draw while she’s in the kitchen, rather than in her pocket. She probably thinks no one knows she keeps it there, but there’s not much that happens on Mal’s ship that gets by him. As long as she feels safe, he’s got no issue with it.

She looks more than just content right now, though. She looks like she belongs here, in his kitchen at five in the morning, pyjama pants hanging from her hipbones, soft, brown hair honeyed by the yellow light. She looks beautiful, is what she looks, though why it’s only dawning on him now he can’t say.

No matter. He has an exemplary track record when it comes to keeping his hands off attractive brunettes, as every female who’s ever bunked aboard his ship can attest to. One more is no hassle.

Darcy shapes the dough until it’s roughly rectangular and drops it into one of the tins. “Want some tea?” she asks, dusting flour off her hands. “I just made a pot.”

“Uh, sure,” he says, but being waited on makes him feel weird, so he adds, “you know you don’t have to—I don’t expect you to get up early and do...” he waves a hand at the flour-y counter top and the second ball of dough still waiting to be kneaded, “all this.”

“Good,” she smirks, no doubt well aware that it sounds just a mite insubordinate. “I’m not usually one for early starts, but I woke up around four and couldn’t get back to sleep.”

He knows that feeling, though he decides not to say as much.

“Thought I’d put some bread on, then go back and try again,” she says as she reaches for one of the higher cupboards and retrieves a mug for him. She’s wearing an old grey tank top of Kaylee’s that’s well-worn enough to stretch easily over her ample breasts, and when she goes up on her toes to get the mug, the top rides up an inch or two. It’s a good thing she has her back to him as she pours the tea, because his gaze is caught on the strip of pale skin now visible above the waistline of her pants. It’s not much, just enough to run a couple of fingers along, but he’s having trouble keeping his eyes off it.

She turns back towards him and he gropes for something to say as she hands him the tea. “Not a problem with the room, is there? Pipes from the water tank run behind one of those walls, can be a mite noisesome at odd hours.”

And what’s he going to do if there _is_ a problem with the room, he thinks irritably, upgrade her to the luxury suite? He sets his teeth against any more idle chatter. Can’t have his crew thinking it’s his job to make their stay more comfortable.

“Nope,” she says easily, “the room’s great. Still adjusting to ship’s time, is all.” She props one hip against the edge of the counter and the movement draws his eye back to the line of exposed skin between her pants and her top. “Can I fix you some breakfast?” she asks.

Mal’s eyes snap back up to her face. “No,” he says shortly. “I’m good with tea. I’ll come back in a couple of hours and eat with the rest of the crew.” Maybe once he’s more awake he’ll have better control over his wandering gaze. He raises the mug in farewell and gets his lecherous _pigu_ out of there before he can make her uncomfortable.

* * *

Mal is running out of places to look when he hears a quiet shuffling sound from the shadows of the cargo bay. He makes his way through the crates and finds Darcy sitting against the wall, legs crossed and hands in her lap.

She looks up as he approaches.

“Hey,” he says gently as he sits down beside her.

“Hey,” she responds in a small voice.

She’s not crying, but that doesn’t mean much. They sit in silence for a few beats.

He wants to tell her that he never meant for her to end up in a situation like this, that he’s sorry she had to do what she did, but he also doesn’t want to make this all about him.

“You know I woulda shot him if you hadn’t,” he says instead. “Just happened you were able to do it before he hurt Wash, and I wouldn’t’ve been able to do it ‘til after, but that murdering _hundan_ was gonna end up in a pine box today either way.”

She doesn’t respond to that comment directly, but she does start talking, which is surely a good thing.

“You know, I didn’t think it would bother me this much.” Her fingers twist around each other in her lap. “In stories, when a bad guy gets what’s coming to him it feels good, satisfying, ‘cause he deserved it, right? This guy totally deserved it, I know that, but I still feel... _sick_.” She rubs a hand absently over her stomach. “It’s like the chill you get in your gut when you have to put down a horse or a dog, only about a thousand times worse.”

“If it’s any consolation, that feeling fades with time,” Mal says, keeping a tight lid on the memories of his own first kill.

“That’s kind of horrifying in itself,” she says, looking up at him, and he can hardly argue with that.

She sighs heavily and sags against him, her head resting on his shoulder. “I don’t think there are any words that are going to make this better.”

“We’ll just sit, then,” Mal says, and they stay there in the shadows until she’s ready to face the world again.

* * *

Mal’s stitches itch like crazy. He scratches determinedly at the thick bandage over his knee but finds little relief.  He really needs to stop getting stabbed.

He punches and tugs at the pillows propped behind him, but they refuse to settle into a comfortable arrangement. Usually he’d ignore Simon’s prescription for bed rest, but this time he doesn’t have much choice. Getting up and down the ladder with his injured leg is the opposite of a fun time, although after three nights of broken sleep due to his sore knee and three days of doing little more than getting bored of every single book he owns, he’s really not in the mood to face anyone anyway.

He drags his sorry ass out of bed and hobbles painfully to the head, then shuffles back to bed, where he sits down gingerly and tries once again to get comfortably situated. He wouldn’t even be in this predicament if not for Zoe’s crappy aim, he thinks spitefully. Okay, so maybe it’s not Zoe’s fault, but it’s definitely Jayne’s, and even if a small part of him knows that’s not entirely (or even partially) true, he’s the captain, gorram it, and if he wants to be ornery and irritable that’s his prerogative. Now _Simon_ , that’s someone he can be justifiably pissed at, the way he keeps coming down here at all hours to poke at Mal’s stitches and stab him with shots of antibiotics.

Maybe he _should_ make that trip up the ladder. They’re probably all up there lazing about, letting it all go to hell. He could go up, do a bit of shouting and cussing, get them all back on track and make himself feel better in the process.

He’s just gearing up to go on a tirade when he hears the sound of the hatch above his ladder opening.

“What?” he calls irritably.

“Lunch, is what,” comes the equally terse reply.

Darcy descends, a string bag over her shoulder, and if he watches her bare legs the whole way down it’s only because he’s been staring at the walls of his bunk for so long now it’s like they’re not even there anymore. Most of her wardrobe is borrowed from other crewmembers, like the Hawaiian shirt of Wash’s she’s wearing today, but he doesn’t have the first clue where those short shorts came from.

“What took you so long?” he grumbles, even though it’s only just past midday and there are no set times for when she brings his meals down anyway.

She approaches the bed and crosses her arms. “Simon says you won’t let him change your dressing,” she says, ignoring his question.

“Didn’t say he _couldn’t._ ” Even to himself he sounds more like a petulant teenager than the captain of a Firefly. “Just said—”

She holds up a hand, cutting him off. “I know what you said, you _houzi de pigu_.”

Mal opens his mouth to defend himself but she steamrolls right over him.

“Here’s the deal.” She retrieves a thermos and a small canvas pouch of medical supplies from the bag. “No soup until your dressing is changed.”

He narrows his eyes, not at all happy with this turn of events. “What kinda soup is it?”

“Egg drop soup.”

His favourite. Damn her.

He could fight this a little longer, but they both know how it’s going to end and his stomach is starting to rumble, so he grunts in acquiescence. She sighs like she just convinced a toddler to consent to bath time, and sets the thermos down on his bedside table, along with a tin cup from the bag, as he twitches the covers off his bad leg.

She unceremoniously plucks a couple of pillows out from behind his back and props them under his ankle so she can unwrap the bandage without him having to bend the knee, which is pretty much impossible right now anyway. He hisses in pain at her touch, but it doesn’t hurt that much and she knows it. She rolls her eyes at him and gets on with her task.

She’s clearly been well instructed. She’s doing exactly what Simon does, even though she’s never seen him do it, and he doesn’t want to risk her walking out with the soup if he gives her too much lip so he holds back on asking whether she knows what she’s doing. He gives her the silent treatment instead, although halfway through it occurs to him that maybe she’s the one giving _him_ the silent treatment.

She secures the end of the new bandage and gives his leg a little pat. “Good boy.”

He gives her a humourless smile and tries to ignore the way the warmth of her hand lingers on his skin.

She carefully removes the pillows from under his ankle, and when she repositions them behind his back she somehow manages to arrange them just right. Then she takes the lid off the thermos, pours his soup with a flourish, and leaves him to it.

He takes a long pull from the tin cup and settles back against the pillows, all desire to go on a shouty tirade having evaporated.

In truth he’d been waiting for someone to call him on his shitty attitude, though he hadn’t expected Darcy to be the one to do it. That had usually been Inara’s job, before she’d left.

He wouldn’t have thought of the two women as having anything in common. Everything Inara did, every word she spoke, felt measured, premeditated. Even when she yelled at him it was with an air of restraint and composure.

In contrast, Darcy is guileless and spontaneous. She’s got a brain between her ears but she doesn’t overthink things. What you see is what you get, which is refreshing when Mal’s day job is bursting at the seams with liars and cheats.

Both women are beautiful, no question there, though Darcy’s beauty comes as much from her artless self-assurance as Inara’s came from her poise and finery.

He takes another sip of his soup. It’s a relief to find that thinking of Inara no longer hurts quite as sharply as it used to.

Darcy returns half an hour later, but instead of removing his dirty dishes, she pushes them aside and pulls a pack of cards out of her pocket. She perches on the edge of the bed so she’s facing him, her hip resting comfortably against the thigh of his good leg through the thin blanket. Her knee is less than an inch from his hand and his fingers tingle at the thought of how soft the cream-pale skin of her thigh must be.

She drags his bedside table a few inches closer and, without a word, begins to shuffle. He considers objecting to her presumption that he’d want her company, if only because she’s so damnably right, but he gets distracted when she pauses to slip a hand into her cleavage.

She pulls out a small handful of wrapped candies and piles them carefully on the far side of the table. The wrappers crinkle as they settle and the sound triggers a memory of sweets dissolving on his tongue.

“For the winner,” she explains. “Don’t tell the others, I don’t have enough to go around. And before you ask, no, I haven’t been frittering away your hard earned cash on candy. Shopkeeper was so busy staring at my ass he didn’t even notice me filching them,” she says with a smug grin.

A flame of anger leaps in Mal’s gut at the thought of anyone treating her like a piece of horsemeat, even as his insides churn with the guilty knowledge of how close he is to crossing that same line.

He’s socked enough degenerates in the jaw for hassling her in port, he’s not about to let himself become one of them. There will be no hands on thighs and no more covert leers at legs or any other body parts, though as she starts to deal the cards, he decides it would do her no injury if he won himself a couple of those cleavage candies.

* * *

Mal dips a finger in the pot of stew on the stove and Darcy swats it away as she stirs. “Don’t you have captain-y things to be doing?” she asks irritably.

He licks his finger. “This is a captain-y thing. Spot inspection.” He smiles like the shit-stirrer he is and wipes his finger on the corner of the dishtowel hanging over her shoulder.

This happens about once a week, Mal coming through the kitchen just to mess with her, but they had a good pay day today and didn’t even have to part with any bullets to get it, so he’s a bit more high-spirited than usual.

Darcy’s cheeks are warm and she wishes she could say it was the heat from the stove. They’re not even touching, but he’s in her personal space and that’s all it takes to get her skin buzzing like a proximity detector. She’s a pro at playing it cool, though, so she covers it with an eye-roll.

“If you’re going to get underfoot, you could at least chop the carrots,” she says, using her chin to indicate the bunch next to the sink.

He moves away from her to continue poking around the kitchen; it’s both a relief and a disappointment.

He twitches a leafy green carrot top between his fingers, but otherwise ignores the vegatables. “Last time I checked, _I’m_ the one gives orders to _you_ ,” and gorram it, that man should _not_ be allowed to smirk like that while talking about giving her orders!

There’s nothing half-hearted about this infatuation of hers, but it’s not like she expects it to go anywhere. From what she’s gleaned from Kaylee, he doesn’t seem to date crewmen, or at least he hasn’t before, and she has trouble picturing him as anything other than a terrible boyfriend.

He wears his heart on his sleeve one day, then shuts everyone out the next. You never know if he’ll be compassionate or ruthless, honest or wily, whether he’ll do the smart thing or the right thing (though in truth it’s usually the right thing, especially if it’s also the dumb thing). She doesn’t know what sort of woman could handle all that, but she very much doubts it’s her.

All she wants is to get as close as he’ll let her, because despite all his contradictions and his faults, he’s compelling in a way she’s not sure she’ll ever be able to put a finger on. She’ll take whatever he’s prepared to share, give as much of herself as he wants to take, even if it’s simply as another member of _Serenity’s_ motley crew and unlikely found family.

He leans over to inspect the tray of hot pies cooling on the counter, soon to be joined by the second tray still in the oven.

“Don’t touch them,” Darcy warns, but because she’s talking to the most contrary captain in the history of captaining, her warning is immediately followed by Mal’s yelp of pain.

“You okay?” she asks with zero sympathy, because that’s exactly how much he deserves.

“’m fine,” he mutters, shaking it out.

“Let me take your mind off it,” she smirks. In a flash, she whips the dishtowel off her shoulder, gives it a twirl and snaps it in his direction. It’s probably going a bit far, trying to instigate this level of tomfoolery in the galley with her boss, but sometimes the only way to find the line is to step over it.

He dodges the tail of her dishtowel at the last moment, then his eyes gleam and his lip curls. “Girl, this is one fight you do _not_ wanna start,” he says, swiping a dishtowel of his own off the counter. But before he can retaliate, they hear the clang of boots approaching on the metal plating in the gangway outside.

After a moment of perfect stillness, he strolls over to her and oh-so-casually drapes the dishtowel over her shoulder. “Your pies are burning,” he says, just as Darcy picks up on the acrid smell of pastry starting to blacken.

Mal saunters off with his thumbs hooked under his braces and a smirk on his stupidly handsome face as Darcy unleashes a string of curse words and yanks the oven door open.

* * *

Darcy could say she’s trying not to overhear the kitchen table conversation as she cleans up after dinner, but that would be a lie. Mal, Zoe and Wash hardly seem concerned with being overheard anyway, going by the volume of their bawdy tales about the army and thievery and flight school, or the laughter that becomes more raucous with each glass of moonshine they down.

Mal’s laugh is a compelling sound. His mouth twists in amusement often enough, and he’s always ready with a snarky quip, but a genuine belly laugh from him is a whole other thing. Darcy doesn’t catch the punch line of the latest joke, but she finds she’s smiling to herself anyway, his mirth is that infectious.

She finishes up in the galley and heads past the table on her way to bed. She’s just about to wish her tipsy crewmates sweet dreams when Mal kicks out a chair and invites her to join them in a cup of their sinus-clearing brew.

Darcy’s a little fuzzy on how much time has passed since then, but her throat acclimated to the sharp burn of the home-made spirit several glasses ago, and anyone who’s not seated at the table must surely be in bed by now.

She’s probably staring at Mal a bit too much, but he’s the most at ease she’s ever seen him, face all smile lines and crow’s feet. He’s got a bit of hair sticking up from where he ran a hand through it earlier while doing an impression of someone Darcy doesn’t know, and it only adds to the relaxed vibe he’s exuding.

Eventually Zoe drags Wash off to bed, fire in her eyes, and Darcy starts clearing away the dirty cups.

“Lemme help you w’ that,” Mal slurs. It would seem he’s even more ‘relaxed’ than she realised. He picks up the last couple of mugs and the large, nearly empty jar of moonshine and follows her to the galley. Darcy’s vision swims a little as she makes her way to the sink, but that’s okay. By now she knows this kitchen like the back of her hand.

She goes to set the mugs in the sink and they kind of tumble in there instead, but nothing breaks. Mal puts the jar of moonshine down and adds the other mugs to the sink as she turns on the faucet.

Darcy wets her fingers under the stream of water and reaches up to smooth down the wayward tuft of hair on top of Mal’s head. “There. I’ve been staring at that for the last hour.”

He gently catches her wrist as she lowers her arm, and shuts off the faucet with his other hand.

“An’ all this time I thought you were lookin’ at me.” His voice is low and rough and it sends a shiver deep down inside her.

She meets his gaze. “And what if I was? What would you do about it?”

There’s a searing heat in his eyes, but also a naked sincerity that somehow makes her feel laid bare as well.

“This,” he answers. He releases her wrist, but only so he can seize her face in both hands.

Their lips meet in frantic, desperate kisses, and there are tongues involved far sooner than is strictly polite. Darcy’s hands scrabble at Mal’s shirt front, pulling him close as she goes up on her toes to deepen the kiss further.

Mal makes an appreciative _mmph_ in response to her enthusiasm. Her body thrums with need for him, and when he slides his hands around her waist she presses her whole body against him. With satisfaction, she notes the growing harness between them. She hooks her fingers under his braces and grinds her hips up towards his just a little to let him know she knows it’s there.

The noise he makes then is more of a strangled groan, and the room tilts a few degrees as he lifts her and sits her on the counter. She hums against his mouth because fuck _yes_ , she’s had fantasies about this, about them doing it here in the galley, just like this. The only difference is she’s not drunk off her face in the fantasies, but that’s okay, she can work with this.

She wraps her legs around him and pulls him close as he presses wet kisses to her neck and quickly works the top buttons of her cotton dress open. She pushes his braces off his shoulders and starts in on his buttons, but then his hand finds her breast and she has to stop and brace her hands on the counter against the jolt of electricity it sends through her.

The movement of his thumb over her nipple is hindered by her dress and the cup of her bra, so she shamelessly pushes all the offending fabric down and out of the way, exposing herself to the cool air.

He cups the whole breast, massaging it as he kisses her collarbone, her throat, the other side of her neck.  Then he takes the nipple between his thumb and forefinger and Darcy moans, shifting her hips to press herself against his straining erection. It feels perfect, the shape of him against her there, though it only fuels her desire to get the rest of their clothes out of the way.

They’re moving at a pace to rival Jayne in a whorehouse, but her head is starting to spin so it’s probably for the best. Mal grinds against her with delicious friction, once, twice—then suddenly he stops, swearing under his breath in a mixture of English and Chinese.

She hears something about a ‘special hell’ and she’s not sure what else, but his hand drops from her breast and he pulls his hips far enough away that she’s forced to release him from the grip of her calves. Her inner thighs grow cold even as her core still burns for him.

He presses his forehead to hers and it’s only in the stillness now that she notices they’re both breathing hard. She tries to recapture his lips but he evades her.

“What?” she asks, carding a hand through his hair. “What’s wrong?”

“Darcy, girl...”

It feels like he’s searching for the words to explain, but in the end all that comes out is a rough, “forgive me, _meimei,_ ” and then he’s gone.

The endearment stings. He sees her as a child, then, _that’s_ what’s wrong.

Darcy slides off the counter and tugs her clothes back into place with clumsy fingers. She makes her way back to her room, too drunk for tears and glad of it.

* * *

_Some weeks later_

Darcy gives up on trying to fall asleep and slips out from between the sheets. It’s been less than an hour since she curled herself around her pillow, but there’s no comfort to be found in her bunk tonight.

Death is breathing down her neck, much closer now than it ever was during that week she spent on the streets before Mal took her in.

Some engine part, some little chunk of metal Darcy has never even laid eyes on, has stopped doing its job and now they’re dead in the water, no chance of reaching any kind of help before they gulp down the last of their air.

Kaylee has a couple more ideas she’s going to try but neither she nor Wash are optimistic, and when the two most cheerful people on the ship have lost hope, the end the of the line can’t be far off. Apparently this has happened once before, and even worse than this, though Darcy can’t imagine how it gets any worse than knowing you only have about twenty hours worth of oxygen left.

She treads barefoot through the darkened ship, the telltale vibration of Serenity’s beating heart no longer thrumming through the floor. The air feels thin in her lungs and the temperature is already dropping, as if the void outside is seeping in through the cracks.

As she tops the stairs her eyes are drawn to the weak light coming from the engine room. She can hear Kaylee and Wash’s hushed voices, but no sounds of tools or work, which is not especially heartening.

She turns and heads in the opposite direction, towards crew quarters, and stops outside Mal’s bunk.

The two of them had been a mite awkward for a day or two after their drunken make-out in the kitchen. Well, Mal had been; Darcy doesn’t really do awkward. He’d apologised, she’d responded breezily that there was nothing to apologise for, and things had returned to normal between them not long after.

At least she knows where the line is now. He’s attracted to her, but he’s not prepared to act on it. She understands now why the moments he’s at his most warm and open with her are moments when no-one else is around. The seven years between them doesn’t bother her in the slightest, but it’s obvious that he thinks their age difference looks unseemly.

But he’s still her captain and her friend, and lord knows she needs a friend right now. She eases the hatch open and climbs down the ladder to the darkened room below.

“Darce?”

The voice from the bed is hushed but clear, with no traces of sleep roughening its edges.

“Don’t want to spend my last night alone,” is all she says, and he only hesitates for a moment before shifting over and lifting the covers for her.

She settles on her side with her back towards him, because she came here telling herself she just wanted to lie beside him, but when he fits himself to her back, she gives in to the urge to turn in his arms. He kisses the top of her head and she sighs, flattening a palm to the warm skin of his bare chest and feeling it rise and fall with each precious breath.

He presses another kiss to her forehead, and when she tips her face up a little, he kisses her temple, her cheek...

Her lips find his, and it’s slow and sweet, as thorough as their kisses in the kitchen were rushed. Her hands slide over his skin, smooth except for the odd scar, the marks of a life fully lived. He cradles her close with one arm and traces the shape of her with his other hand. When he reaches the hem of her nightgown halfway down her thigh, his fingertips slip beneath it. Darcy twines her fingers in his hair and deepens the kiss.

“You sure?” he murmurs.

“Was always sure.”

They take their time, because if their first is to be their last, they’re going to make it good, but in its own way their love-making is as desperate and passionate as their last encounter. They cling to each other, to feeling, and sensation, and _life_ as only those marked for death can, and when Darcy finally comes, the heavenly white light behind her eyelids seems fitting.

She collapses with her cheek to his heaving chest, holding close every detail of the two of them alive in this room together: the smell of their sweat, the cool air on their hot skin, the sound of their ragged breathing. After a time, she slips off him and snuggles against his side. He’s just arranging his arm behind her head when they hear a mechanical creak reverberate through the walls. Mal stiffens and his head lifts off the pillow as the creak becomes an unbearable grating sound, which is followed by _Serenity’s_ engines rumbling and roaring back to life.

His head drops back onto the pillow and his whole body goes slack with relief.

“My girl,” he murmurs, touching his fingertips to the bulkhead next to the bed in a reverent caress.

His boneless relief only lasts a few more beats before it’s replaced with a burst of joyous energy. “My _girls_ ,” he says, wrapping Darcy in an enthusiastic embrace and nuzzling playfully at her neck.

She chuckles and pushes him away, unsure what to do with the strange but high honour of being counted amongst _Serenity_ in any category.

They hear Jayne hollering from his bunk, the thunk of Zoe’s hatch opening, the jumbled clang of what is probably Kaylee and Wash’s boots coming down the gangway to revel in their success.

Mal clambers out of bed and starts pulling on clothes. “Let’s go see.”

Darcy starts putting her underwear on, but says, “If I go up there, it’s going to be pretty obvious what we were doing down here.”

Mal tosses her one of his shirts to wear and hustles her towards the ladder. “Like I give a rat’s ass about that.”

Darcy huffs a laugh at her enigma of a captain, then follows him up the ladder and into the light.

 

* * *

**Translations**

_pigu_ \- ass  
 _hundan_ – bastard  
 _houzi de pigu_ – monkey’s butt  
 _meimei_ – ‘little sister’ a term of endearment for a younger female, not necessarily a relative. (Mal, Inara and others call Kaylee _meimei_ several times throughout the series.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, as always, for reading. You can't even imagine how much it means to me. If you feel like leaving a comment, I pretty much always reply :)


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